Wiseguy
by FraterKiller
Summary: AU. Sam isn't a good kid; he's just good at acting like one. The demon blood did more than give him nifty, painful visions and his eventual addiction; it screwed with his head to the point where he's super-possessive… not to mention his little something else. (But, shh. Be quiet. Dean doesn't know about any of that.) Rated T-M. This starts slow, folks.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I'm still working on my addict!Dean 'verse. Promise. But in the meantime, you get a drabble type thing that I'm eventually going to end up expanding, because it's taking up a shit-ton of space on my harddrive that I want free. Any errors you see are my own.

Summary: AU. Sam isn't a good kid; he's just good at acting like one. The demon blood did more than give him nifty, painful visions and his eventual blood addiction; it screwed with his head to the point where he's super-possessive of things, especially people he likes… not to mention his little something else. (Shh. Dean doesn't know about that.)

Light Sam/Dean, I guess? They're just co-dependent, and comfortable within each others' personal space.

Right now I'm more hinting at Sam's inherent evilness than anything else; these things take time to build, after all, and Sam's only fourteen in the beginning.

* * *

_He knows he's dreaming._

_He's sitting on a pier, somewhere. There's a thick mist covering everything, and it's hard to breathe. He doesn't know exactly where he could be; all the wooden piers he's seen started blending together after that one hunt in Oregon. Or maybe it was the one in Michigan; he's not sure._

_ He gets up. It only takes him a few moments to walk to the end – only, it shouldn't have, because it was so far away, but he's still definitely dreaming, so whatever – and he doesn't know why, but he feels like he should kneel down to touch the water._

_So he does._

_The water turns a deep black. He draws back his hand, and as epicenter of the ripples widens, the black grows and grows and grows._

_He sees something in the middle, but it's hard to make out. It's gray and blurry, but has the faint outline of a man._

_"What are you?" he asks, curious._

_"Your future," it answers, the deep baritone a sharp contrast to his childish tenor._

_"I don't understand."_

_"You will."_

* * *

Sam methodically flattened his peas one by one, the overcooked vegetables meeting a messy end from a fork that had seen better days. A heavy downpour battered the pane of glass separating him from the storm. Angry white lightning ripped across the sky, seemingly searching for purchase in the gray clouds. The images burned into his retinas, and Sam closed his eyes so he could trace the patterns left behind.

John slammed his empty mug down, the sharp crack knocking Sam out of his musings. Pulling himself away from the window, he glanced across the table to see his father frowning down at his wristwatch. After a moment, John looked up, face stoic.

"Finish your food," John ordered, his voice brisk and whisky-rough. "We're leaving in five."

"Yes, sir," Dean said, not looking up from his meal. Sam just nodded.

John stood up from his seat; the worn, brown material of the booth groaned in protest of the movement. He dug into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, dropping a twenty and a ten down in payment for the meal.

"Dean." Sam's brother grudgingly tore himself away from the last of his lunch, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Yeah," he drawled. Sam stuck his elbow onto the table and dropped his chin into his palm, fingering his butterfly knife. _Just one throw, _he thinks. _That's all it would take_.

Not that he'd ever really _do_ it. At least not now.

Dean relied on the man far too much.

"You feeling well enough to drive?" Dean shrugged a shoulder, pretended to think about it. Sam waited for him to say no. Just because he was on painkillers didn't mean he was okay to drive.

"Yeah." Sam glared at Dean and opened his mouth to speak. Dean caught his eye and tipped his chin down, eyes drugged-bright and serious, the order clear. _No, let me do this. You know how he gets. _Sam scowled at the rebuttal, but stayed silent. John grunted in approval, oblivious to the by-play in front of him, just as Sam knew he would.

It wasn't like he ever noticed, anyway.

Reaching into a front pocket, John tossed a ring of keys over to his eldest. Dean caught them before they hit the table.

"Take the Chevy," he said, like Dean wouldn't recognize the logo stamped onto the biggest key, "I'll meet you in Richardson. Five hours. No detours. We clear?"

"Crystal." John nodded once more. As his leather-clad back strode towards the exit, Dean's tightly bandaged head followed the movement, and in turn, Sam worriedly watched his brother.

As the tinted door swung shut, a draft blew into the diner, and Sam shivered as the chilly breeze brushed over his face and shoulders. He pulled his coat tighter around himself. As John crossed the wet asphalt, Dean looked away to pass Sam the salt, silently sliding it across the cheap, yellowed formica with one shaking finger.

Sam blew on the glass, and the brothers watched the warm air cover the sight of their father in a thick fog.

"I don't get it," Sam said. Dean shook his head and leaned back.

"Don't you start."

"You shouldn't be driving."

"Sam-"

"No." Sam shook his head. "Don't bullshit me. I know you're dizzy." Definitely hurting, probably still stiff and sore. That hadn't been a soft wall he'd been thrown into.

Dean rubbed at his shoulder, his green army jacket rustling with the movement. "I can still drive."

"Just because you can do it doesn't mean you should." Sam knew he was going to get stonewalled, but he can't stop himself. (He's afraid that Dean's going to kill himself one of these days, saying "Yes, sir" while he's doing it.

That just can't happen. He won't allow it.)

"We're going."

"He expects too much from us," Sam tries again.

"Shut up, Sam. You don't _get_ it."

Sam got up – ignoring the rest of his food, John could screw off for all he cared – and moved around the table to sit where his Dad had vacated. He reached for Dean, but his brother scooted closer to the window to avoid the hand. Sam huffed and moved closer, squishing his brother between the window and his body. Dean doesn't try to move again, just allowing himself the small comfort Sam's offering. Sam mentally hums in approval; Dean's been getting better at that.

From the short distance, he could feel the heat of Dean's fever. He reached up to cup his brother's forehead.

"Why don't you crash in the backseat?" Sam offered, his thumb brushing against Dean's ear. "I can do it."

"You're fourteen."

"Dad taught me how to drive, dude. Or did your _light_ concussion make you forget?" Dean grabbed his brother's wrist and pulled it down, wrapping his hands around Sam's cold fingers.

"No. It's going to be sleeting by the time we get to Texas. I don't want you driving then."

Okay, fine. Sam can compromise.

"Why don't I drive two hours. Just two." Sam pulled his hands away from Dean's, and he pointed his thumb out at the parking lot. "Dad's already gone. It's not like he's gonna know." Dean shrugged and shoved gently at Sam to get him moving, obviously not in the mood to squabble. Sam grinned and bounced away, careful not to let his legs touch under the table because of the dried gum underneath, his tough soles smacking the diner tile as he pushed off the seat. Dean rolled his eyes, getting up at a much slower pace.

Sam lets his brother set the pace to the door, and Dean doesn't grumble when Sam opens it for him. The cold air hits them like a brick to the face, and while Sam was prepared for it, Dean shivered noticeably. The dirt walkway quickly gives out to crumbling black, and Sam digs around in his brother's jacket pocket for the keys. He grabs them before Dean can complain and bounces over to the driver's door, unlocking it as fast as he can.

The inside of the car is almost as cold as the outside, but he makes sure to unlock Dean's door before he shoves the keys into the ignition.

"Be gentle," Dean said after he slid in, swatting at Sam's head over the bench seat. Sam ducked the hand and grinned, unrepentant.

"I don't know about you, but I want the heater on." Dean settled into the backseat, and Sam revs the engine, knowing it'll make his brother grin.

"Put on some AC/DC, bitch."

"You need sleep, jerk." Dean leans forward, and before Sam can react, wraps a finger around a piece of Sam's hair and tugs.

It's just them against the world, for now. He wishes there was a way to make it permanent, but he figured that it would come in time. Hunting was a dangerous profession, after all.

John wouldn't be there forever.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: ****Life is awful. And it sucks. Any errors you see are my own; my current excuse is I'm running on no sleep and a headache.**

**Somebody just e-mailed me and told me that they received a shit-ton of mail in their inbox saying I updated my story with about a million chapters. I didn't do shit; I think 's just glitching on you. Enjoy the new chapter anyway. **

* * *

It takes them seven hours or so to get to Richardson.

Or, more accurately, a small town slightly north of Richardson.

They know that Dad's not going to be mad; the man understands bad weather as much as the next person, after all, and there's a fucking huge snowstorm brewing outside.

Dean taps a rhythm out on the steering wheel. It's more him unleashing nervous energy than an actual song, and he keeps one eye on the lookout for traffic behind him – the street was white and empty – the other on the lobby door. Sam had insisted that he stay in the car while he got the key, and not that he was complaining, but it still made him jumpy that Sam was out of sight.

Sam. That was a whole 'nother problem.

Or, not a _problem_ problem, exactly.

More like a _potential_ problem.

But he wasn't really making sense.

(Not that _Sam_ made much sense.)

Dean's fingers speed up. Dad's truck wasn't in the lot, just a few snow covered sedans and a beat up pickup near the entrance. But this was the only motel within walking distance of the freeway pull off, and there was no way they were going to be spending a week in a place called _The Hannigan Suites_, so here was it, absentee father or no.

Besides, he wanted a goddamn _bed_. If these had bedbugs like the other place, then he and Dad were gonna have _words_.

In the rearview mirror, he sees his brother exiting the lobby. Sam's head is lowered against the wind, and his hair is dripping and frozen in equal amounts, whipping around his red face. Dean leans over the seat to double check the door is unlocked, and Sam yanks it open and quickly sits, slamming the door shut.

He hands Dean their cash bundle, the moderately good sized stack wrapped in a blue rubber band. The sight has Dean raising an eyebrow. He expected at least a fifth of it to go towards their stay.

"You didn't pay?" Sam shakes his head, doing his best to rid himself of the icy water. Some of it gets on Dean's hand and he scowls, wiping on his jeans. As Dean's calculating how much of their budget is going to be sucked by the fancy place down the street, Sam speaks up.

"The broad behind the counter said Dad already dished out for the week." Dean frowns but inches the car forward, doing his best not to slide into one of the parked vehicles.

"Grab the bags," Dean says automatically. Then, "What?" Sam snorts, but turns to do as he was ordered.

"I know; that's what _I_ said."

"What name did he use?"

"Bonham." Damn. Dad expected to be busy for over a week, then.

"What's our room number?"

"Six." as he pulls into the narrow parking space in front of their designated room, Dean shifts the car into park and shuts it off. The brothers listen to the low ticking as the engine cools, neither of them eager to leave the warm car.

"Well, I do know one thing," Dean says wryly.

"What's that?"

"There's no way the schools are still open in weather like this."

"Small fuckin' mercies," Sam mutters, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Dean opens his door and gets out, woozy but stable. Sam follows.

"Mm-hm."

"Amen, oh great one."

"Wise ass," Dean grouses as they rush to the room. It might only be a small distance away from the car, but Dean's teeth are already chattering. He grabs the key from Sam, unlocks the door and stumbles forward, already kicking off his boots. "Get in here and close the goddamn door." Sam quickly compiles and runs over to the heater under the window, pushing the _on_ button and jumping from foot to foot as he waits for the heat to kick on.

Dean smirks, peels off an icy wet sock, aims carefully, then throws. It lands on the unprotected skin of Sam's neck. Sam yells and spins around, takes off his boot to throw it, and oh, it's so totally _on_-

A moment later they're wrestling across the floor. Sam kicks at his brother's ankle and Dean blocks, pushing Sam into the leg of the table and digging his elbow into Sam's diaphragm in retaliation. The table wobbles, and the spoke wheel lamp crashes to the floor. The boys freeze, and they turn to look at the same time. It didn't break - just knocked over, thankfully - and Dean ends up pinning Sam to the ground while he's still distracted, wooziness and headache aside.

Sam fake scowls as Dean releases the grip on his biceps, and they lay side by side for a moment, panting into the quiet room. The low hum of the AC and the howling wind outside buzzes in their ears.

Sam's stomach growls loudly, and Dean rolls his eyes.

"I'm hungry."

"I don't think anybody's delivering in this weather."

"We could try," Sam says hopefully, craning his head to look Dean in the eye, and yeah, Dean's hungry too, but.

"Fine, princess." Sam beams despite the unwanted nickname. "We're not getting Mexican."

"Aww, what, your nose can't take the heat?" Sam teases, pushing Dean away and wiggling out of the rest of his twisted coat.

"Dude. _Nobody_ can take the smell of a patented Sam Winchester fart. Not even Chuck Norris." Dean thinks for a moment, and ever the entrepreneur, says, "I wonder if there's a way we can bottle them up and use 'em."

"Use 'em?" Sam asks before he can think twice about it, and at Dean's grin, Sam's eyes widen. "Oh _god_ I didn't _mean_-"

"Yeah, like on a hunt." He pokes Sam's cheek.

"-don't you even-"

"No, really, hear me out-"

"_No_!"

"-hunters from all around would want to-"

"Oh, come _on-_"

"-try a Wondrously Windy Winchester fart-"

"-oh my _god _that sounds_ so bad _you don't even_ know-_"

"-I think there'd be a _ton_ of interest-"

"Noooooooo-"

"Oh, yeah? Well, Sam's a pretty pretty princess-"

"And you're a total asshole with a hair complex-"

"-my hair is manly, _bitch,_ unlike yours-"

And then the motel phone rings, plunging their verbal sparring into a quick silence.

"You're getting it," Sam says, glaring at the corded phone. He stomps off to the bathroom and slams the door. Dean drags himself up and lumbers over to one of the beds. The springs creak from the unexpected weight as he sits, and he leans over to grab the handle of the phone. He lifts it to his ear.

"Yeah?" he says.

"Dean, it's me."

"Hey, dad," he says, relaxing at John's unhurried tone. "What's going on? I thought you were meeting us here?"

"I was going to. Something came up." He can hear the sound of traffic, and Dean can imagine John at a payphone, back to the wind and white breath clouding in front of his face.

"You're driving in his weather?"

"I'm outside 'a Oklahoma." Dean sucked in a breath.

"What."

"It's for the best-"

"No, Dad, it's fucking _not-"_

"-because I got a lead on what killed Mary." Dean shook his head. Sam opened the door and stuck his head out, eyes narrowing in on Dean's face. He makes a rude hand gesture at the phone and ducks back inside before Dean can reprimand him.

"I guess that's that, then," Dean says, making sure his irritation is heard in his voice. Even though John didn't say anything, Dean knew his father enough to know that John wasn't going to budge, no matter what he said. "You're coming back in a week."

"Or more," he says. Then, "Are you enrolling Sam?"

"No." He twined the cord around his fingers tightly, watched as his fingers turned white from the pressure. "The weather's shitty and the schools are probably closed."

"I was planning on renting and letting Sam finish the semester here." Dean stopped his fidgeting in surprise.

"In Richardson? Really?"

"Yeah." Dean blinked at the wall, unsure what was going on in his father's head.

"...You're gonna be gone longer than a week."

"Take care of your brother, Dean." Dean opened his mouth to tell his dad exactly how he felt about that-

-until the dial tone reached his ear.

_"Fuck."_ Dean slammed down the phone. "Sam," he yells.

"Yeah," came the muffled response. Dean heard the faucet being turned off and towels rustling.

"Dad's ditching us for a week. Laying low's a priority."

"No school?" Sam asks, exiting the bathroom. He goes to his bed and bends over his duffle, shoving clothes out of the way and leaving them wherever they land; he's on the hunt for his hoodie.

Sam pulls out a black hoodie, jerking it over his head and shoving his arms into the sleeves. _Dean's_ hoodie, to be more precise.

"Hey," he protests. Sam pouts, brown hair in disarray.

"It's not like you wear it." Dean rolls his eyes, and Sam prompts, "So? School?"

"Not for the week, at least," Dean continues, "he said he was thinking about staying here for the rest of the semester." He pulls the small drawer under the table that separates the beds and grabs one of the take-out menus. He grins at the paper's cartoon, a fat pig with a chef's hat with a pot belly and a tattoo that reads _Albert's Pizza_, and after a moment of hesitation, opens it. Sam makes a sound somewhere between a hum of a agreement and a scoff.

"That'd be nice," he finally says, flopping down on the cheap paisley comforter. Grabbing the remote, he flicks on the TV. Getting static, he flips the channels until he finds slightly grainy M*A*S*H re-runs.

"Pepperoni or cheese?"

"Supreme?" Sam asks hopefully.

"...maybe." Dean rolls up the flyer and tosses it at his brother. "I'm going to get cleaned up. You order."

"Okay," Sam says, not taking his eyes off of the TV. "Just so you know, the water's cold as fuck."

Dean curses and grabs a change of clothes.

Sam laughs.


End file.
